Good In Bed

by Bromberg, K

  She really thought I was an actual cop.

  “Y- yes, Officer?” she stammered, “I- I’m so sorry. We — we’ll turn the music down.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not good enough,” I said, my voice deepening, turning into a growl. I reached down to my waistband and her eyes followed, and then her tongue parted her lips as she licked them. It was a move I’d also noticed so many times before, and one that couldn’t help but remind me of Amy.

  As my hand reached for the handcuffs on my belt, I unclicked them and held them up, letting them dangle from one finger as her eyes searched for mine and widened. It was fear, but there was always something else in their eyes.

  I started to twirl the handcuffs around my finger lazily. “I’m afraid you’ve been a very, very naughty girl.”

  And then Liam, and Aaron, and Jack came from around the corner and we burst into the room.

  Showtime.

  A woman in the back with long, straight, brown hair, large black rimmed glasses, and bright red painted lips waved frantically, arms sweeping in the air like someone trying to alert a search plane. I knew to pay attention to the room and to follow that cue because that was usually the person who had paid for our performance.

  Liam and Aaron followed. Jack just looked around, clueless. I couldn’t blame him—it was his first time. I had to remind myself that this was only my seventh performance.

  I, too, had been that green.

  But how quickly, how startlingly quickly, this had become second nature.

  We followed her out onto a larger-than-expected patio with a pergola, with beams wrapped in Christmas lights and a vine I couldn’t identify. It gave the whole outside a European feel, as if we were sitting in a beer pub in Germany. There were picnic tables everywhere, elegant picnic tables, the kind you would find at an antique store, or some high end place on Newbury Street.

  The crowd came out onto the patio. The hostess pointed to a semi-stage area for us where we would be under the pergola and yet be in full view of the whole crowd as they gathered round to watch.

  The song began, and then we were transformed into The Village People.

  Performing the song “YMCA” had an incredible level of irony to it for a bachelorette party. But hey, we didn’t choose it.

  We just showed up, collected our tips, and gave everyone a good time. The average age in the crowd was probably thirty-five. The bride was a pleasant, giggly woman who reminded me of a blonde version of Amy, if Amy had been raised in the Back Bay of Boston. But every client reminded me of Amy.

  Hell, every woman I walked past on the street reminded me of her. Pretty soon, a strong breeze would — you get the picture.

  As we danced I heard a voice cut through the music and it threw me off guard. Darla? Was Darla here?

  I could hear it faint and floating on the wind, but I had to ignore it. Maybe a guest just happened to have her accent. It was eerie. It set me on guard.

  I knew that Amy and Darla were out for the evening. Darla had told me so I hadn’t worried that I was abandoning Amy for the night. It had given me a sense of security in keeping my secret for longer, because it was one more evening where I could stall before letting her know.

  A woman in a long, flowing burgundy outfit, the skirt jagged on purpose, came up to me and pressed her body against my leg as I ground my hip into hers.

  “Do you do extras?” she whispered in my ear, the scent of Shalimar overwhelming.

  I looked at her and did exactly what Louise had taught me, which was to give her a half-smile, a cocky grin, and say, “Sorry, but I’m taken,” and then to thumb toward Jack. He’d made it clear when he was hired that he would do anything.

  When I’d first learned that some guys did anything, I’d felt a sense of disgust. How hypocritical is that?

  I’d take the hypocritical label over what those guys did, though. Not my thing.

  And yet, I couldn’t judge anymore. Women wanted them. Women paid them for more than a look or a quick touch, and everyone walked away with a happy ending.

  So to speak.

  Amy

  I reached into my front pocket and felt for my phone. I could check it again but... why? There wasn’t going to be a new text.

  It had only been seven minutes since I’d checked it last. This quiet from Sam was bothering me.

  Where was he? He obviously wasn’t here with me, and I had no reason to doubt him. It’s not like he was out screwing some other girl, right?

  Darla walked back out onto the balcony and said, “Hey, come on in. Have a drink.” She peered down. “Whoa—that’s one hell of a bachelorette party, huh?”

  I looked down. A group of people crammed a ground floor patio, a set of four guys acting like they were The Village People. Women pressed their bodies up against headless torsos, the men’s upper bodies obscured by an awning. Whatever was going on down there, it certainly looked like fun.

  More power to them.

  Darla grabbed my elbow and pulled me inside. Somehow, she magically conjured an Amaretto Sour and gave it to me with a big grin.

  “How’d you know?”

  “That’s what you were drinking when I met you that first night in the bar.”

  Maybe that’s why she was so popular with people. She paid attention.

  “Thank you,” I said, meaning it deeply.

  “You’re welcome.”

  An awkwardness that poured into my cells when I was at a big party began to fill me. Darla sensed it.

  “We don’t have to stay if this isn’t your thing.”

  Jane appeared out of nowhere, looking more and more like Wednesday Addams with red hair. “Darla, may I have a word with you?” she said pleasantly, her voice modulated and friendly, her face a mask of neutrality.

  “Sure.” Darla shrugged. “Be right back,” she said to me.

  Drawn by an invisible force to the balcony again, I stood out there. Three or four people smoked cigarettes, in animated conversations it was obvious I wasn’t meant to join.

  The cold iron of the railing was a balm. I looked down on that giant party again, now watching women about ten years older than me stuffing bills of undetermined amounts into the waistbands of guys with physiques that reminded me of Sam’s and Liam’s.

  They were wearing hats, and... was that red hair under one of them? And surfer blonde hair under another? I couldn’t see their faces but something really familiar was making an alarm bell go off in me. I closed my eyes and shook my head quickly.

  I drank the Amaretto Sour. I looked out on the river and watched a small boat go by. I even pretended to care about the rantings of some Libertarian next to me who was talking about convincing fifty thousand people to move to New Hampshire and take over the state. For the next thirty minutes, I tried not to obsess.

  And I failed.

  As the party downstairs got louder and louder, I finally heard someone shout, “It’s a Diana sandwich!”

  Whoever Diana was, she wasn’t going to be the meat rubbing up against any two pieces of bread I might know. This was silly, I knew, but it also gave me an excuse to leave.

  Darla found me just as I was walking down the hallway.

  “Where ya goin’?” she asked.

  “It’s just too hot in there,” I said.

  “But you were out on the balcony.”

  “I need to go. I’m going to wander and get some air. I’m not leaving for good.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  I stumbled down to the stairway, meandering slowly, the drink hitting my head faster than I thought. The stairs and hallway were extremely narrow and not well-lit, unless you were right in front of an apartment door. Dark, stained oak trim and molding made the hall seem tiny, and my body pitched a bit. That was one stiff drink.

  “Diana,” the voice said, a man’s voice full of tight emotion. Ah, so this was the mysterious Diana in her man sandwich. Lucky girl. Who wouldn’t want a threesome on a hot night at a party?

  Her lips pressed h
ard as she stood in red leather come-fuck-me-pumps pushed up as she stretched to reach the mouth of the guy against the wall, her body writhing and smashing into him, his arms not quite embracing her.

  And then the light became clearer.

  All. Too. Clear.

  Diana was the meat in a Sam-and-someone-else sandwich.

  Oh, God.

  Work, huh?

  Some fucking job you’ve got there, Sam.

  “Sam?” I choked out, hoping that just saying his name would make it all be untrue, that this was the amaretto sour creating a stupid, intrusive image.

  But when Diana pulled back I saw his shocked face, lips raw from the kiss, mouth in an “O” of surprise.

  What do you do when you run out of good choices?

  You just run.

  Sam

  One minute I’m dancing on the patio and the next I’m inside, sipping a soda and trying to get used to letting all these women just touch me when they want to, like I’m a toddler, a statue, a pet dog.

  A caress. A stroke. A finger walking up my pecs. Each touch came with cash attached, which they tucked into the little string at my waist, so no complaints. My pants were back on, the top half of the costume hanging from my hips, the hat at a jaunty tilt on my head.

  They love that.

  I love it, too. Making them happy, that is.

  No job I’ve ever had involved so much hedonistic fun. The most excitement you can have without doing something illegal. My body, my time, my increasing bank account.

  And my Amy, off at a party with Darla.

  A pang of guilt smacked my chest at that thought.

  Er—that was someone’s hand.

  “Hi,” said a boozed up blonde with shiny ringlets and wide brown eyes that reminded me of Amy’s. “I’m Diana.”

  “Hello, Diana.”

  One more drink and those eyeballs would be floating. A little alarm inside me started to ring softly. Louise had warned us about women who got too drunk. If they pushed for more, we needed to tread carefully. Dramatic scenes were definitely unacceptable. We were here to add to the fun — not let it be ruined by drunk women who turned into screeching banshees when turned down.

  “Wha’s yer name?” she asked, fingers sliding down my chest, over my navel and—yep. I turned slightly and set my soda down, using the maneuver to get some inches between us, trying to catch one of the guys’ eyes.

  “I’m Sam,” I said, taking a half step back.

  “Sam,” she crooned. “You wanna go getta drink somewhere?”

  I did my aw, shucks routine. “Can’t. I’m working.”

  “Oh, I can make you work,” she said, reaching into her purse and pulling out a wad of twenties.

  Ah. “Diana, you might want to speak with one of the other guys.” My eyes scanned the crowd with panic. Damn it. Where were they?

  “Don’ want the other guys,” she murmured. “I like gingers.” She reached for my hair.

  Time to cut my losses and just walk away. That’s what Liam told me to do. And then—

  “Hey, babe,” a deep voice said, coming up behind Diana. The guy was her height and looked like an Italian soccer player, thick with muscle and a five o’clock shadow to beat the band.

  I reached out to shake his hand. “Nice to—”

  “You find someone to share you with?” he said to her.

  His eyes met mine and my balls shriveled all to hell.

  Liam had never, ever warned me about this.

  “Nico,” he said, extending his hand. I felt like I couldn’t not shake it, so I did, on guard and hackles up. The guy reminded me of my dad—that dangerous sort of anger right beneath the surface, like a slithering cobra that could strike without notice.

  “C’mere,” he said, grabbing my arm and taking me and a very loose Diana out into the hall. As I left, Liam was finally in sight and he shot me a questioning look.

  Help, I mouthed.

  One curt nod and he began peeling women off him, twenty feet or so behind me. I lost visual contact as I walked through the front entrance to the apartment and found myself slammed against the far wall of the hallway by Diana, her hips grinding into my thighs, mouth suddenly hot and loose on mine. Then the crush of her body, then Nico’s behind hers trapping me, my arms out like I was readying for a crucifixion.

  Where the fuck was Liam?

  Diana’s mouth wouldn’t give me any kind of break, teeth biting my lips hard, tongue lolling and sloppy, saliva everywhere. I wasn’t being kissed.

  I was being slimed.

  “It’s a Diana sandwich,” Nico shouted.

  Liam appeared in the doorway and clapped a hand over his mouth, then threw his hands in the air. What the fuck? he mouthed.

  “Diana!” I said, trying to protest, putting my arms on her shoulders to push, but Nico was rubbing her ass with his groin, legs apart, dry humping her.

  I kept my eyes opened as Diana roto-rootered me and flailed with my arms in a movement that I hoped communicated that I needed to be rescued.

  And then:

  “Sam?”

  I turned my head as best I could toward the sound of my name, twisting inches, only to find Amy’s horrified face a few feet away, the dim light of the hall making her look like an angel, an aura around her.

  Diana sensed something and pulled back, finally giving me a chance to take a much-needed deep breath.

  I stared, slack-jawed at Amy.

  And then she ran.

  “No! Come back! Amy! It’s not what you think!”

  “Widdle gurfriend’s feewings hurt?” Diana said, coming in for another kiss.

  Shoving hard, instinct kicked in.

  “Get. Off. Me,” I shouted.

  Nico lost his footing as a hundred plus pounds of his own girlfriend came flying fast at him. Whatever force I used was enough to push them both back into the apartment’s entrance, Liam hopping out of the way just in time.

  “No more Diana sandwich,” she pouted, her and Nico a flesh pile on the floor.

  The thump of Amy’s footsteps stopped abruptly as a door opened and snapped shut. Outside by now, she was gone.

  I took two steps toward the main door, then realized how I was dressed.

  “Go,” Liam urged. “Go get her, Sam. You need to figure this shit out now. I got this.”

  “You sure?”

  Nico and Diana were now dry humping on the floor beneath us, apparently having let go of the sandwich idea.

  Piecing my lines of velcro together, I worked to look as decent as possible. Liam tossed me my hat.

  “Wha—?”

  “It’s cold outside. You’ll need that.”

  Sprinting down the hallway, I slammed the front door open and looked left and right down the street, the dim lampposts posh and elegant, but it was no use.

  She was gone.

  What had I done?

  Amy

  It’s not what you think, the text read.

  Oh, Sam, I thought, you have got to be fucking kidding me.

  Is there some textbook that guys are handed that tells them exactly what they’re supposed to say when they have decided to fuck you over? I ignored it.

  Bzzzzz! The next text. Please Amy, please talk to me.

  Yeah, right.

  Bzzzzz! Whatever you think you saw, it wasn’t what you think.

  Bzzzzz! This one was from Darla: Where the hell are you?

  I quickly typed back: At home.

  What happened? You disappeared, she wrote back.

  And then, bzzzzz!

  It was Sam. Please, Amy. I’m coming to your apartment. Please. I need to talk to you.

  Caught Sam with another woman, was all I could type back as the tears began to cover the glass screen of my phone. I hit ‘send’ then realized I hadn’t sent that text to Darla. I’d sent it to Sam.

  The phone rang. Sam’s number. I let it dump to voicemail. The phone rang again. Sam’s number.

  Voicemail again.

  If he really was
on his way over here, he wouldn’t be able to get into the building without buzzing, and if he buzzed over and over, what would I do? I looked around my apartment. It had been a safe haven and now it felt like a prison.

  Better to walk the streets at night and be free than let Sam incarcerate me with a set of lies. Four and a half years ago he’d gone to radio silence when I’d tried everything I could to reach him.

  Payback’s a bitch.

  I couldn’t go home. Couldn’t leave. Couldn’t stay.

  What do you do when you have no options?

  When there is no good choice?

  You run again.

  Grabbing my coat, I made sure I had my keys, phone, and some cash, and locked up, the cold night wind all-too-familiar. I’d just been outside an hour ago.

  Bzzzz.

  The Off button called my name, so I shut the damn phone off and proceeded to walk wherever I needed to go to erase this horrible night.

  For the next hour I was haunted by two memories: the conversation about the party, and seeing Sam in a threesome kiss.

  “What are you doing tonight?” I had asked him earlier. “Darla invited me to a party. You wanna come?”

  A shadow had crossed his face and he pulled his hands back. It was like being stung. The absence of his touch was stronger than its presence. With half-lidded eyes he had met mine, and then quickly looked away.

  “I’m working,” he had said.

  Working.

  He and I had very different ideas of what “working” meant. Apparently, Sam though it meant having his throat tongue-fucked by some woman who was being groped by another dude at the same time. Don’t get me wrong; threesomes are great.

  Just not with my Sam.

  Late night Boston is filled with drunk college students, drunk middle-age couples who come into town for the chic restaurants and expensive shows, and the homeless beggars. The mix is intriguing, and I definitely stood out as an oddball.

  While you’d think there would be more girls roaming aimlessly, crying after being fucked over by their boyfriends on a weekend night, I appeared to be the only one.

  If you asked me to recount that hour, I couldn’t. The convenience store clerk avoided eye contact as I sobbed my way through buying a candy bar. The chocolate and peanut butter tasted like sour copper in my mouth and I spat it out on the lawn of one of the colleges, leaves marring the perfectly manicured surface, a trash can every twenty feet a reminder of the insistence on order and cleanliness.